


Approaching Zero

by swishy



Series: Zero 'Verse [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, M/M, Modern AU, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-07-25
Packaged: 2017-12-18 08:59:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swishy/pseuds/swishy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a conclusion in there, but it takes Grantaire a while to get to it. A memory of Enjolras’ angry voice does it, then: You’re not worth the food you’re eating, Grantaire! Jesus, are you good for anything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> I won't even try to defend myself.
> 
> Okay, I will. This is helping me, is all.

_Things I’m good at_

  * _painting_
  * _annoying the fuck out of people_
  * _fucking up everything I ever started_
  * _doing things by halves_



 

It’s funny, because Jehan was really only trying to help when he told Grantaire to make a list of all the things he was good at. Grantaire had spent a few minutes staring at the first point, trying to remember anything else he could do and finding his former talents partly-forgotten, alcohol-consumed half-memories. (Wielding a stick at his opponent, making him stumble and fall, fencing, boxing, dancing his way out of misery-)

There is a conclusion in there, but it takes Grantaire a while to get to it. A memory of Enjolras’ angry voice does it, then: _You’re not worth the food you’re eating, Grantaire! Jesus, are you good for_ anything _?_

Grantaire skips dinner.

By morning, he has a plan.

(He skips breakfast as well. There’s the combined ache of hunger and for alcohol, one of which he’s been told he has to cave in to, and one of which he should endure. He just switches his disobediences: It’s not hard at all.)

That evening at the meeting, he stands up after Enjolras stops talking, and announces: “I’ve got bad news and good news. The bad news: I flunked out of university, but you all know that already. The good news: I want to stop drinking. And I need whatever support you’ve got to offer with that one.”

 Impressed chittering. Combeferre comes over to pat his shoulder and tell him to call whenever it gets too bad, he’ll be there. Joly smiles a wide, proud smile that hits home like nothing else. Jehan throws his arms around him in a tight hug.

Enjolras alone looks skeptical. (The look doesn’t become him. Grantaire decides to change it.)

Everyone welcomes the shaking of Grantaire’s hands as the evening progresses like an old friend. Grantaire smiles at it, and at them. And if the blood leaves his face white and ill-looking, and if he can’t quite get up and walk around on his own without getting slightly dizzy, then well, he’s got friends and a mission to keep him upright.

Bossuet proposes celebrating his first day of no alcohol with a huge pizza order, and Grantaire grins.

“Yeah no, didn’t I tell you about that? I’ve stopped eating as well. Thought it would complement the no drinking thing nicely,” and everyone laughs. “Seriously though, I feel a bit nauseous, I don’t think I can risk pizza just yet. You guys go ahead and order, though!”


	2. Day 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, lovelies. Thank you for your kudos and the comment!

The first day is the worst: after that, the hunger stops feeling like hunger, a dull ache settling in his bones instead. Grantaire walks around feeling like a ghost. (He wants to be less than that. He sets out to reduce himself to zero.)

A nervous giddiness has him leave the house and go to the Musain, whose backroom is vacated. Grantaire toes off his shoes and strides to the CD-player. There’s a high-pitched buzz in his head that he wants to drown out, and so the dusty Tchaikovsky CD someone (Jehan) must’ve left there feels like a godsend.

Swan Lake fills the room, and somewhere in between the giddiness and the persistent pain in his stomach and the self-disgust that he never quite manages to shake off, the memories of steps and routines and girls in tutus swarming about start coming back to Grantaire. He finds himself tentatively rising to the tips of his toes just to see if he still can. (He can.)

He does a half-remembered spin, redoes it until he finds it works, and resets the player. He dances and bends and spins and swirls about an invisible girl, pushing the ache and dizziness into the background. Ballet never felt like flying before, but then, he never tried it on an empty stomach.

Grantaire improvises what he can’t remember, and he’s sure that his dancing looks atrocious, but what he feels is blissful stillness, the tips of his toes barely touching the ground, his treacherous body compliant for once. Grantaire has never been a very good ballet dancer, because this is Grantaire: He never goes past the point where he’s _okay_ at something, he never goes for perfection. He always stops at _hey I bet you can’t do this_ , he stops at the point where he can casually impress someone at a bar somewhere. But it’s enough to shut up his rabbiting mind and heart for now, and that’s all he needs. He closes his eyes.

And promptly crashes into the shelf. He’s gasping for air all of a sudden, pulse back to rapid in no time. Grantaire scrambles for purchase with a mumbled “fuck,” when there’s Enjolras’ voice right next to him, saying: “are you alright?”

Grantaire starts, turns and, yeah, that’s Enjolras, carrying books and notes and an odd expression. “Fine,” he says, leaning against the wall and looking up at the ceiling for a moment until the black dots decide to recede and give him back his eyesight. “Seems ballet isn’t something you should do while sober.”

“I didn't know you did ballet,” Enjolras says, putting his books on a table and sitting down next to them.

“I stopped four years ago. Tchaikovsky lured it back out of me it seems,” Grantaire replies easily.

“I’ve never seen you so focused.”

Grantaire cracks a smile at that, because indeed, he never is, that’s rather the point: isn’t it impressive that he can be kind of good at something without even paying full attention? Isn’t it impressive that he can say a few sentences in seven languages _and_ draw a decent caricature _and_ dance _and_ box _and_ recite a bunch of poems _and_ do a backflip _and_ quote historical characters? What’s the point of focusing, if it renders you unable to try out everything else you always wanted to do?

But of course, Enjolras doesn’t see it that way. Enjolras refuses to be impressed by casualness. Enjolras admires _dedication_.

“What are you doing here already, anyway?” Grantaire asks. “I didn’t expect anyone to come in till five.”

Meetings are at six, surely not even Enjolras needs that much preparation.

“I noticed,” Enjolras says with just a hint of a smile. “Sometimes I come back here to study. My place tends to distract me.”

“Oh right,” Grantaire says. “I’ll get out of your hair in a second; I need to grab something to eat anyway.”

“I don’t mind the company,” Enjolras says. (And Enjolras means what he says, that’s Grantaire’s rock to build on.) It’s the most civil conversation they’ve had since – yeah, the beginning of time, probably. Grantaire briefly considers throwing in a sarcastic remark just for the hell of it, and finds that he doesn’t want to.

He stays.

“I forgot to tell you yesterday,” Enjolras says after a moment of silence. “I’m glad you decided to stop drinking.”

“Thanks,” Grantaire replies, laying down on the couch, facing Enjolras. He feels wrung out and calm at the same time, as if a few kind words from Enjolras could undo two days of starvation. (He wouldn’t be surprised.)

Enjolras turns his attention to his books, and Grantaire keeps his on Enjolras: the way he curls a strand of hair around his pen in deep thought, how he chews on his full lower lip, his slight frown are committed to memory.

(If there’s anything Grantaire regrets about his decision, it’s the amount of detailed information on Enjolras that’s going to get lost. He should make a list. He should paint him.)


	3. Day 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone notice that the only people directly quoted are Enjolras and Grantaire?  
> And thank you so much for the comments, again!

_Things I’m good at_

  * _painting_
  * _annoying the fuck out of people_
  * _fucking up everything I ever started_
  * _doing things by halves_
  * _going without food for 3 days_



 

Waking up, Grantaire doesn’t feel anything at all. He stays in bed and relishes this new non-feeling for as long as he can manage without moving. He went to bed early, because he couldn’t seem to get anything done after coming home from the Musain, his body screaming at him to _stop, whatever you’re doing wrong just stop it._

When he finally turns around to glance at the clock, he finds out that it’s six am.

(It seems he won’t be able to just sleep through the whole thing. Oh, well.)

As soon as he swings his legs out of bed and gets himself in a sitting position, the pain comes back and has him double over.

It makes his movements slow and sluggish, and when Grantaire stumbles into the kitchen, he caves in and eats an apple.

(It hurts like hell when it reaches his stomach. Grantaire supposes he could call it punishment.)

Things clear up a little for a bit after that, which Grantaire uses to throw out anything he deems eatable (except the cat food. He feeds the cat while he’s at it. His mind tells him that cat food is both the best and the worst thing he’s ever smelt.)

That done, he goes back to his bedroom and tries to read for a bit, but it’s hard to concentrate with the ever-present ache in the background, so he gives up on it soon and settles for crap telly instead. It fades into a background noise at some point, lulling him into a haze that has him almost miss the meeting.

(It’s only a few days to some demonstration, which is why they have daily meetings at the moment. Grantaire never cares, but always shows up.)

He climbs out of bed and showers (he wouldn’t bother, but he’s sweating like a pig - Sweating is the stupidest reaction of his body to starvation that Grantaire has witnessed so far. _Oh I see you are not bringing in enough energy, hey let’s waste a lot of it to get you to notice!_ ) and dons something long-sleeved and baggy, which turns out to be a sweater he didn’t even know he still owned.

His reflection shows dark circles under his eyes and a pale face with cracked lips. Grantaire resolves to ask Jehan for his lip balm once he’s at the Musain.

He looks sick but not necessarily starved. Grantaire nods at his reflection and hits the road.

He usually bikes to the Musain, but today he takes the bus for fear of falling off and possibly ending up at the hospital. He has to take slow, deliberate steps and plan in some time to get rid of the dizziness after standing up, but he manages to be on time, or at least just as late as always.

Combeferre throws him a look, but goes back to discussing signs and routes and whatnot with Courfeyrac and Enjolras. Enjolras looks his way briefly but doesn’t seem to notice anything off about him. Joly subtly edges away from him and towards Bossuet, who vaguely nods in his direction with an apologetic expression.

Jehan hugs him and wants to know what’s wrong.

“I think I’m coming down with something,” Grantaire replies, “can I have your lip balm, though, I’m buying you a new one I swear, I just feel like they’re going to start cracking and bleeding at any moment.”

Jehan hands it to him and feels his forehead. His hand comes away damp with sweat, and he clicks his tongue sympathetically and offers his lap as a makeshift pillow.

Grantaire accepts it gladly, and over the course of the meeting, people come over to bring him a blanket, and a glass of water with a straw so he can drink while lying down, and various snacks (which he declines). Jehan’s fingers tangle in his hair to massage his scalp, and Grantaire is as close to content as he gets.

Combeferre and Enjolras join them on the sofa after Enjolras has wrapped up the meeting, Combeferre asking a few questions to make sure he’s not going to die overnight, Enjolras hovering in front of the sofa with an uncertain air.

“Do you need a ride home?” he asks after a while. Grantaire considers that. Getting up and dragging himself to the bus stop is something he’d be _able_ to do, but Enjolras offering something is a rare enough occurrence, and it might be the last for him.

“That’d be great,” he says. He doesn’t live too far away, so he doesn’t even feel guilty about it.

Enjolras nods and offers him a hand. Grantaire levers himself into a vertical position. There’s a chorus of _get well soon!_ s when he slowly makes his way to the door, and he smiles back to them. “I’m going to be fine, don’t worry!”

Enjolras stays close enough to catch him in case he stumbles, but doesn’t touch him. Grantaire isn’t used to being the focus of Enjolras’ attention, but there’s something nice about it, he supposes.

“So how did the meeting go?” he asks, just to say something. “I kind of slept through most of it I fear.”

Enjolras smiles. “It looks promising. I hope you’ll be well enough to attend on Saturday, because this is going to be huge. We’ve finally managed to get their attention, I think.”

“That’s nice,” Grantaire replies, because it is, right? Just because he can’t see the meaning of much of anything right now doesn’t mean that he should mock those who can.

“You’re slurring your speech,” Enjolras notes, and it’s just that, no force behind it, no hidden question.

“I’m pretty fucking tired,” Grantaire concedes, which is true.

Enjolras opens the car door for him, and Grantaire gets in.

“Do you think this is to do with the lack of alcohol?” Enjolras asks, once he’s gotten in on the other side and shut the door.

“What, me being sick? It certainly didn’t help,” Grantaire says, shrugging. “But I don’t exactly feel like drinking at the moment, so maybe it’s a good thing.”

Enjolras lets go of the steering wheel to squeeze his shoulder.

(Grantaire stares. Enjolras looks straight out of the front window, completely oblivious. Grantaire thinks, _screw it, it’s not like I’ll get another chance to tell him._ )

“I’ve been in love with you for a little over a year now, you know,” he says.

Enjolras glances over, half of his face illuminated by the yellowish light of the street lamps. He looks like more of a statue than usually, even, but then there’s a softness around his eyes that doesn’t combine with marble.

“I know,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.”

That’s all. (It’s more than he could hope for, really.)

“I don’t suppose you’d want to go out with me anytime soon?” Grantaire asks, because apparently that’s not enough of a no for him.

“Ask me again when you’re not sick and out of your mind,” Enjolras replies, which is not a yes. But it’s not a no either.

Grantaire smiles, or tries to. His muscles do weird things. It’s something to cling to: In another life where he doesn’t fuck up everything he starts, maybe they could have been something.


	4. Day 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny little placeholder thing. One of the next chapters is going to be extra long I promise.   
> Also, thanks, lovelies! I'll see what I can do for R :)

On day four, Grantaire declares himself to look too suspicious to leave the house. (He also realizes that dying _sucks_. He doesn’t know how much time is still ahead of him, he figures he probably has less than the rule-of-thumb three weeks he’s heard about, but his patience is wearing thin already.)

He thinks that he could order in some soup and just stop it and nobody would ever know. Sure, his friends would be really sweet about nursing him back to health, and perhaps a little disappointed when he’d inevitably start drinking again, but otherwise completely unaware.

He thinks that he could use a short cut. It wouldn’t take much, not in the state he’s in.

He decides against both options.

He sends a text to Jehan, saying that he must have eaten something bad, that he’s vomiting up everything and can’t leave the house so he won’t be at the meeting today, sorry.

Jehan replies that he’s going to stop by after the meeting if Grantaire doesn’t mind, and Grantaire texts back: _ok but NO FOOD please I can’t even smell the stuff without cramping up jesus_

Grantaire spends the day ghosting about his flat. He tries to write letters to his friends and his sister, but it feels like more drama than he deserves. He wants to disappear: Leaving notes would be somewhat counterproductive.

Jehan comes by in the evening, feeds his cat, mops his brow with a wet towel, and is his sweet, wonderful self, until he notes the empty bucket at the foot of his bed.

Grantaire shrugs his way out of it. “The smell of vomit doesn’t do a lot to keep me from vomiting,” he says, “so I crawled out of bed and washed it and opened the windows, by the way, if you could close those again, I’m getting kind of cold…”

Jehan does, and leaves him with a kiss ghosted to his sweaty forehead.


	5. Day 5

Day five is almost as if Grantaire has ceased to exist overnight and nobody notices. It’s almost too good to be true. He doesn’t text anyone, and so nobody texts him back. He’s on nobody’s mind and doesn’t pay them any in return. He tries to coax his cat into a cuddly mood, which turns out to be just as hard as it always has been, but he’s very dedicated to the cause, and so the cat is quite agreeable by the time he gets distracted.

(He gets distracted a lot today, stray thoughts strolling in and taking up all of his focus for a little while before leaving him vaguely confused and hurt.)

_When he was little, he thought ‘desist’ meant ‘stop existing’ because that’s the logical conclusion, right, and so his mother’s playful order to ‘cease and desist!’ had him crying quiet tears into his pillow at night more often than not._

He tries to draw Enjolras, and gets distracted by the time he’s done with the face, ending up making him some fantastical creature with wings and claws.

_The day he met Enjolras was the day he got the news that he’d made it into university, and he will forever connect his fierce, proud, inspired, unbroken face with the tentative hope that maybe he could make something out of broken, hollow, drunk him yet._

He tries to draw the haphazard bun that Enjolras will sometimes twist his hair into when it annoys him during one of his speeches, with the stray curls just above his ears that are too short to fit and the high forehead it displays, ending up drawing flowers wound into the tie and putting way too much attention into their details. His work looks about as insane as he feels, rough broad strokes tapering into delicately curled fine lines, making for a drawing that demands to be inspected from afar and up close at the same time.

_There’s an ugly twist to his stomach whenever he hears his little sister’s laugh: melodic and filled to the brim with joy, her curls just a frame for her dimpled and happy and blinding smile. It makes him feel grateful and hurt at the same time, because thank God she hasn’t inherited his uselessness, his worthlessness, his lack of vigor, the bitter twist to his lips, but Christ had he hoped she would just so he’d have a little company to share the pointlessness of life with._

He tries to draw Combeferre’s face with the earnestness and the straight long nose and the obvious kindness edged into the lines around his eyes and the glasses and the intelligence trapped in his silent gaze, ending up letting some of Jehan’s lithe appearance seep in, his expressive mouth with the thoughtful smile, possibly creating the single most caring and soft and delicate creature the world has ever seen.

_Sometimes, when he’s about to do something reckless and stupid, Grantaire imagines the look of disappointment on Combeferre’s face, the way he tries to hide it behind offers of help. Sometimes it makes him stop._

He tries to draw his little sister as the girl of six or seven he remembers her to be, but he stops as soon as he starts recognizing her in his drawing.

_He has always been just a hair’s breadth away from the conviction that the world would be better off without him. His parents’ faces whenever he comes home with yet another note to sign, saying that he’s disruptive, cheeky, inappropriate, that what little he has to say he’d better kept to himself, convince him of it again and again, and then his sister’s little lopsided smile makes sure he does nothing about it._

There is a lot to him, and most of it will be better of nonexistent. He tries to draw himself, the hunch of his shoulders, his blotchy skin, his mess of hair and monster of a nose, but ends up merging into a skull that displays his too-small, crooked teeth in an involuntary grin, his much-denied spine cricked from ducking into shadows (where he doesn’t bother anyone).

He realizes that he forgot about drinking, there’s no thirst left, and Grantaire smiles, lips cracking, because thirst is something that always got the better of him, and now it’s gone, and all the better for it. He crawls back to bed, ignoring the way every part of his body that connects with the mattress screams out in pain, and spends the rest of the day thinking about nothing in particular.


	6. Day 6

_Things I’m good at_

  * _painting_
  * _annoying the fuck out of people_
  * _fucking up everything I ever started_
  * _doing things by halves_
  * _going without food for 3 days_
  * _going without food for 5 days  
_



 

Grantaire wakes up to a white-hot pain raging in his head and several texts asking if he’s going to be at the protest that starts, apparently, in a few hours.

He sends a group text to everyone except Joly and Combeferre (who are both soon-to-be doctors and whip smart, and Grantaire isn’t risking anything): _sorry, turns out to be a stomach bug, looks like I’ll be staying in bed for some time. you guys have fun though_

It’s Enjolras who replies: _I’m coming over afterwards if that’s okay with you. You still have those posters_

Grantaire remembers the posters: he was supposed to design them and bring them in, and then flunking out happened, and Grantaire forgot about them. Now, it appears to be the Next Big Thing after the protest.

Grantaire has some unfinished, half-assed designs somewhere in the chaos that is his room, maybe that’ll be enough for Enjolras. (It won’t. But maybe it’s enough to leave him be)

 _Sure,_ Grantaire texts, _but don’t bring food_

_I wasn’t going to. Anything else you need_

_Yeah company. Being sick is boring as hell_

_I’ll do my best to entertain you_ , Enjolras replies, and Grantaire can _hear_ the flat tone. He laughs tonelessly.

-

In the afternoon however, it’s Combeferre who texts him that Enjolras has been sent home on doctor’s orders, but he’ll come over and try and entertain him if that’s fine by Grantaire.

 _Actually,_ Grantaire replies truthfully, _I don’t think I can get up to open the door._

Combeferre texts that he heard something about a spare key somewhere. (The bastard always hears things that are not destined for his ears.)

_Right, yeah under the doormat, sorry I’m not thinking straight_

And then there’s the key in the door, and Grantaire pulls up the covers until only his face is showing (he doesn’t know what it looks like, but his skin comes off in dry flakes when he rubs at it, so probably like death himself.) Combeferre looks slightly shaken at his sight, but makes easy enough conversation while feeding the cat. He asks why Grantaire didn’t send the text to him and Grantaire answers, with a smile that looks slightly terrifying if the way he feels blood trickling down his chin is anything to go by, that he didn’t want Combeferre to feel obligated to come check on him, “as, you know, the aspiring doctor of the group and everything.”

Combeferre’s mouth sets in a thin line, but he doesn’t ask anymore after that.

“The posters must be in here somewhere,” Grantaire says, with a sweeping gesture that encompasses the room in general, and Combeferre starts rummaging for them. Grantaire curls in on himself and closes his eyes again, until

“ _Fuck,_ ” Combeferre swears, and that just - doesn’t compute. Combeferre _never_ swears. Grantaire turns his head to see that he’s holding a piece of paper that looks familiar and there’s an expression on his face that Grantaire has never seen calm and collected Combeferre wear, and – oh _fuck it’s the list fuck is a good word for this fuck_

Combeferre is leaning over him within a second, studying his face and then pulling away the blanket, and there’s a gasp and then – “hospital, I’m getting you to the hospital,” and. Yeah. That’s not happening.

“No,” Grantaire manages to say, with some vigor.

Combeferre gets back some of his calmness. “Grantaire, you have my word that you are not worthless, or useless, or – “ he stops. Then he takes out his phone and dials.

“Enjolras,” he says. “Come over as soon as you can, Grantaire is refusing to go to the hospital and I need you to convince him. Bring juice or glucose if you’ve got any.” He hangs up and turns back to Grantaire, whose head feels like there’s a supernova taking place inside, or whatever the reverse is called, the death of a star, everything trying to collapse into as small a place as possible.

“This is about what he said to you, isn’t it? A few days ago? I remember, because I told him afterwards that it was out of line.”

“It’s mainly about me being an idiot,” Grantaire whispers. “And what’s to be done about that.”

“He didn’t mean it,” Combeferre says.

“Enjolras always means what he says,” Grantaire replies, because this he can remember. It’s rock number one.

“Grantaire…” Combeferre seems lost for words. This is a night of firsts, it seems. He sits down on the edge of the bed and his expression is even more agonized up close.

 _Technically_ , Grantaire had been aware that his friends would grieve his loss, of course. There has been a bit of detached thinking about it, even, but it’s nothing compared to this.

This is Combeferre swearing. This is Combeferre speechless. This is Combeferre, with whom you always know that behind his calmness he cares, except without the calmness and with all of the caring laid bare for inspection.

And Grantaire may be tired of living, but he’s just as tired of dying, and Combeferre has started asking questions, Combeferre is making an honest attempt to listen to him instead of pushing him around, and Grantaire is hijacking that attempt by not paying attention.

“What?” Grantaire croaks.

“What is this about, Grantaire? Depression, or did something else happen? What triggered your decision?”

Something is not right about this question, but Grantaire can’t pin it down. “University,” he ends up saying. “Enjolras. Life in general.”

“None of this defines your worth as a person,” Combeferre says, and yeah, Grantaire has heard this a lot, but it does nothing for his opinion of himself. He shrugs, and Combeferre sighs.

“I could list off nice things people said about you behind your back,” he offers, seemingly at a loss, “even though Enjolras might kill me for that.”

Grantaire tries a smile.

“I don’t expect you to magically get better,” Combeferre starts again. “Just give life another chance, with your friends in mind.”

Grantaire honestly doesn’t know what to say to this, because giving up now feels like throwing away a whole lot of work for nothing, and Combeferre said so himself: nothing is going to change, he will just go back to start and hope that it turns out better this time around. It feels like a decision about this requires his full reasoning powers, which he doesn’t have right now because he’s not exactly in the best of health.

He’s almost glad when the doorbell rings, until he remembers who it’s probably going to be.

“Don’t tell him,” he says, when Combeferre pulls out his phone (presumably to text Enjolras about the key under the doormat, because he doesn’t seem to want to leave his side).

Combeferre looks at him for a few moments, and then he says: “Okay, I’ll leave it to you.”

Enjolras comes in, carrying a bottle of orange juice and sporting a massive black eye. He looks between Grantaire and Combeferre.

“What happened?” he asks finally, stepping closer. “Did you get worse?” He sounds vaguely worried.

Grantaire looks up at him with some difficulty. “It’s nothing,” he says, “Combeferre is overreacting.”

Enjolras snorts. “Combeferre never overreacts.” He looks down at his hands, seemingly surprised to find them still holding the bottle. “I assume you’re supposed to drink this,” he says. “Do you want me to get a straw or something?”

“And a glass,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras disappears.

“You shouldn’t keep it from him,” Combeferre says, but it sounds like he’s given up already.

“He’d think he’s the reason why I tried to kill myself,” Grantaire says, and Combeferre smiles.

“What’s funny,” Grantaire asks, frowning.

“You said tried,” Combeferre says, and Grantaire rolls his eyes and turns his back to Combeferre.

“I refuse to be convinced that it was some subconscious decision on my part,” he says petulantly, and there’s the feather-light touch of Combeferre’s hand to his shoulder. Grantaire dozes off.

The sound of a door smashing against the wall startles him back to wakefulness.

“There’s no food,” Enjolras’ voice sounds shocked and frightened and Grantaire wishes he could just crawl somewhere quiet and _die_ , Christ, is it really too much to ask.

Combeferre shifts next to him, the mattress dipping. “Yes, that’s why you were supposed to bring the juice-“

“But there’s _nothing_ , not even ketchup, not even a can of beans,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire curls back in on himself.

(Enjolras isn’t dumb. He can put one and one together. He probably remembers what he told Grantaire that one time.)

“It’s not a stomach bug, is it?” Enjolras asks. He sounds a little frayed around the edges. “Combeferre, give us a moment?” he says finally, and Grantaire turns to look at him.

There’s something akin to horror in his expression. When Combeferre stands and leaves, they both watch him go.

“Grantaire, if this is about what I said to you a few days ago,” Enjolras says urgently, “I’m sorry, Grantaire, I didn’t mean it, I didn’t know – no, that’s not true, it’s just that I keep _forgetting_ that these things hurt you–“

“It’s not about that,” Grantaire says, feeling incredibly tired.

Enjolras takes Combeferre’s place and offers him the glass of juice.

Grantaire moves to turn away again, but Enjolras catches hold of his arm.

“Grantaire, you never did ask me again,” he says, sounding close to desperate now.

“Yeah, because I’m still out of my mind and still sick,” Grantaire shoots back.

“I would have said yes,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire laughs soundlessly.

“Right,” he says. His throat hurts like hell. “Not everything’s about you, Enjolras.”

Enjolras looks suitably guilty. “Just take a sip of that juice,” he says. “Please?”

The room spins around Grantaire, the juice smells so delicious it’s too much for his brain so that it turns it back ‘round to disgusting. Suddenly, he feels rather silly. “If I do, will you marry me?”

Enjolras doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

Grantaire stares. “I was just fucking around now,” he says, “but nice to know.”

“I don’t exactly feel like fucking around,” Enjolras says, practically shoving the juice in his face.

“This is not about arguing,” Grantaire says. “I’m just really fucking tired of life, and. I don’t just want people to be nice to me or anything. I wasn’t doing it for attention.”

“Yes, I know. You were really clever about the whole thing. But guess what, I’m going to be nice to you anyway, and I’m really fucking scared right now, and so is Combeferre, I’ve never seen him so out of his mind, so if you’d _please_ ,”

and Grantaire decides to give up the charade and reaches for the straw.

( _One_ more chance, he thinks. He gives himself one more chance to turn himself into someone he can look at in the mirror. (Who is he even kidding, he thinks. He can’t pull it off, apparently. He’ll sell his death for a few nice words.))

He takes a sip, and the _taste._ Grantaire doesn’t think he’ll be able to drink orange juice ever again in his whole life because Jesus Christ why is this so intensely disgusting?

Enjolras deflates visibly, but he keeps his eyes on Grantaire. “I took the mild one, the one for children, I thought that would be better, since you were sick and everything,” he explains, and there’s _no way_ this juice is supposed to be mild but Grantaire isn’t exactly an expert in tastes right now so he doesn’t say anything.

“Trying to keep it in, Enjolras, but please put that away?”

Enjolras puts the glass onto the nightstand. Grantaire closes his eyes against the way his stomach clenches around the mouthful of juice.

“We’re taking you to the hospital now,” Combeferre says, suddenly appearing at his side again, and yeah. Grantaire doesn’t say anything, because he knows that no answer will always be counted as consent to medical treatment, and actually saying yes feels like too much of a betrayal for him to do it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You want comfort? You shall get comfort!  
> Trying to make up for all the hurt without the whole thing becoming ridiculously unrealistic was surprisingly hard, so, um, if there's anything that you think doesn't add up, please tell me.  
> This isn't the last chapter, because this is far from over for Grantaire. I have no idea where it's going to go from here though, so, be warned?


End file.
